


Never Soon Enough

by sagiow



Series: Season 3 That Never Was - sagiow Edition [2]
Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Experimental Style, F/M, Forbidden Love, Frustration, Hospitals, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-12 21:23:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13555851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow
Summary: Where do we go from here, my love?





	Never Soon Enough

**Author's Note:**

> RETCON 2018.02.20: It's now the cold open of Episode 2 - Season 3 That Never Was - sagiow Edition. Forget that part about Jed being married. He's quite free, and Mary's being stubborn.

_Where do we go from here, my love?_

_There is nothing that can be said, that is not known,_

_Nothing that can be done, that can be seen._

_And so nothing is said, nothing is done, and yet…_

_Everything is understood._

 

 

Footsteps, the squeak of hinges, the creak of floorboards, a glance upwards. A face aglow. A smile. “Good morning.” _How I’ve missed you._

 

Pleasantries exchanged. Enquiries as to mood, to health, to occupation. _How did you sleep?_

Reassurance that one is content, well, busy _. Lonely. Poorly._

 

“Have you read this?” Heads hunched together over the day’s paper, barely taking in the news, fully taking in the other’s baited breath, the warmth of proximity, the happiness of togetherness.

 

A patient awaits. Another surgery. “After you”. A door held, perhaps not as wide as it could have been. Passing through, perhaps closer than was necessary. The shuffle of skirts, the phantom of his hand at the small of her back.

 

“Ready for ligature”.  Instruments passing from one hand to the other, fingers touching, hesitating, not yet releasing their grasp. An instant too long. A spurt of blood. Alarm. _Can you handle this?_

Fingers no longer hesitating, plunging to quench the wound, her own heart beating twice as fast as the pulsating flow. Her own blood draining from her face, but legs remaining strong. A tiny nod. _I can handle this._

Nod returned. Pride. Respect. Ligature resumed. _We can handle this._

 

Cape thrown on, bag content double-checked. “Errands to run in town?” _Are you going far?_

Gloves fixed, head shaken, “Just visiting the camp and bringing Charlotte supplies.” _We shall never be thus parted again._

 

Cold wind, kept out by the sturdy tent walls. More blankets distributed. Pulses to take, fevered brows to soothe, mouths to feed. Typhoid has left their midst. She remembers it well, and guiltily misses its excuse for his hands on her, his body by hers, his eyes searching hers for any change in her state. The constant contact both had so craved, finally tolerated if not allowed, and once more forbidden by Health’s glorious return.

 

The warmth of his office, of his greeting at her return. “Would you like some tea?” A proffered cup, steaming full, a chip along its edge. Morning's biscuits, dry crumbs on the plate. A mealy apple, sliced in slivers. _When we’ll have tea in our home, it’ll be in the finest china, with the flakiest pastries, the freshest fruit. You shall want for nothing._

“Certainly, thank you”. Milk, a sprinkle of sugar. A bite of biscuit. _When we'll have tea in our home, I shall want for nothing more_.

 

Inventories to be done, reports to be drafted, letters to be written. The golden glow of the sun lighting the mahogany desk between them. Face to face they work, as romantic a tête-à-tête as can be hoped for. “How are the conditions in the camp?”  _Have I done enough? Am I redeemed_ _in your eyes?_

The scratch of the pen interrupted _._ Images of improvement. People soothed, cared for, comfortable despite the cold. Reunited families. Smiling children. Her own reassuring smile. “Much better, with your continuous support.” _Above and beyond, and every day more again._

 

A knock on the door. Another nurse, a request for help. Their sweet haven invaded. Back to the front they march. “Do call for me if you need my assistance”. _I know you don't, but please do, nonetheless._

Skirts straightened, chin risen. Reassurance that all is in hand. A twinkle in her eyes, a document presented. "It's your signature on this supply request that I need" _._ Her smirk, his chuckle. _But I do, and in so many ways._   

 

Glass cupboards opened. Amber vials clinking. The smell of alcohol, acetone, ammonia. The bitterness of quinine, laudanum… morphine. Its sweetness… Hesitation.

A presence felt. Furrowed brows staring intently. A sigh. “For Private Wilkins”. _I honor our pact. I stay the course._

Brows relaxed. A sigh returned. “It will do him good.” _I believe in you. You are doing so well._ Behind the cabinets, a silent recess, an instant of intimacy. The furtive caress of an arm, the squeeze of an elbow before returning to duty, to the eyes of all.

 

A sheet pulled over a face, finally at rest. A quiet prayer. “Such a young boy.” Grief, anger, threatening to explode. _When will this end?_

The swell of despondency, threathening to burst. The crave of a comforting embrace, inanely denied. _Never soon enough._

Folding bandages, dressing wounds, changing beds, sweeping floors. The sheen of effort wiped from her brow. A wisp of hair escapes its plaited prison. He cannot help but stare. _Oh, for me to free it all and bury my face into it!_

She feels his burning gaze across the room, his desire crossing the distance to match her own when she dares to meet his eyes, eagerly following her hand as she tucks the strand behind her ear, and softly lets her fingers slide down the side of her neck, to the button at her throat.His jaw clenches, his fists curl up _. Oh, for him to free himself and bury himself into me!_

A moment’s rest by the fireplace, surrounded by a neverending succession of chaperones. Book opened. Needle threaded. _"_ Any special plans for tomorrow?" _Could it finally be the day?_

Pages turned. Stiches spaced evenly. "None so far, but who knows what the day will bring?" _If not then, still one day closer._

 

Fatigue swarms. Eyes close. Yawns hidden, yet exchanged. “I think I shall call it a night.” _I don’t want us to part yet._

A conclusion. An overture? “May I escort you?” _Neither do I._

Dark eyes meet, darker still in the dead of night, in the promise of one last shared moment.

A silent climb. Shadows in the lamplight. _Here we first argued._

The landing at the top of the stairs. _Here we first kissed._

The door. They face one another, inspect the darkness. There are no witnesses. _At last._

Mouths meet. No longer soft. Softness is what the days permits. The night allows more.

For a moment, they are home, the gap closed, their thirst quenched, the rest forgotten.

But the moment passes, and home is not close enough, and thirst becomes hunger. _God, I want you._

Hands in hair, on cheeks, on neck, on what little skin is exposed, is burning, setting fire to their whole being, pushing them against the door, one handle turn away from ecstasy.  _God, you have no idea._

But this is all they may have. All that they may steal, in the cover of obscurity, from Propriety’s iron grasp.

For now.

 

One pulls away. Never the same, but one always does. Always for the other’s respectability. Never for themselves, for they’d give it all up, and gladly, to be finally as one.

Sorrow and longing surge. Fingers and palms merge.  _This is torture._

Foreheads collide. Breathe in, breathe out.  _The worst kind._

 

Hands brought up to lips. One last kiss, to last one more day. “Good night, Mary.” _Soon, my love._

One last squeeze, then all lets go, takes a step back. The gap returns. The door opens. “Good night, Jed.” _Never soon enough._

**Author's Note:**

> This week, odd of all odds, I had both time *and* desire to revisit the wonderful world of Mercy Street fanfic. However, this opening was not paired with any drive to finish my WIPs, nor precise inspiration to start something new, aside from desperately wanting to diverge from my typical "screenplay" style.
> 
> After a few very late nights of half-assed attempts at mediocre stories, middlemarch's "period appropriate" qualificative somehow got the wheel spinning, and my overfried end-of-week brain sputtered out a bunch of random images, feelings and thoughts. My slightly less fried, albeit definitely tipsier, Friday brain organized them chronologically. I may have also flaked out on my last half-hour at work and pretended to write a very scientific progress report while filling up the timegaps. Oh, the bulletproof cover of an corporate document header and an Excel scatterplot graph!
> 
> So there you have it. And since it's Groundhog Day, imagine it repeating, again, and again. Now there's some additional angst for ya ;)


End file.
